So Strange Are the Ways
by misqueue
Summary: A little reaction piece to episode 4x04 "The Break Up": Blaine returns to Ohio. Canon divergent AU. Warnings for undiagnosed mood disorder. Title is magpied from the lyrics to The Tea Party's "Heaven Coming Down".


The landing gear touches down with a terminal double _thud_ that reverberates in the freshly carved empty space within Blaine's chest. He's back in Ohio, and it's done. Blaine texts Kurt shortly after the plane lands, as soon as the flight attendant tells them they may use their cell phones. The distance yawns deep and pulls taught between here and New York, where he left his heart. It may be still attached to him, but barely. It's up to Kurt to sever whatever strand of affection may yet bind them; Blaine has done enough damage. He isn't hopeful that Kurt won't. Kurt does not reply to his text. But then Blaine didn't expect him to. Silence is better than some other things; Blaine tries to convince himself.

His bag feels like it's twenty pounds heavier when he hauls it out of the overhead compartment. He nearly clocks himself in the head.

His mother meets him. Blaine didn't expect her to, thought he would be getting a cab home.

As she greets him, her smile is as it always is, familiar and a little forced, as if she's still not sure she is meant to smile at him. He's never understood it, but he's grateful to see her. She is his mother.

"Hi, Mom," Blaine says.

She cocks her head, her smile turning to a moue of concern. She fusses uselessly with the collar of his cardigan. "This gray doesn't suit you. It makes you look tired, dear."

"I am tired," Blaine says with a sigh. She doesn't respond to that as she turns toward the direction of the escalator. He's almost grateful even as a bitterness spreads on the back of his tongue.

"How's Kurt?" she asks, brightly now, walking a step ahead of him and glancing back over her shoulder.

"He's enjoying working at Vogue dot com," Blaine replies. "His boss thinks he has a promising future there."

"That's wonderful to hear," his mother says. "I'm sure you're proud of him."

"Of course," Blaine says.

.:.:.

In the car, Blaine sends Kurt another text: "I wanted to tell you something but I didn't get the chance. I'm so proud of you." His fingers twitch wanting to add another 'I'm sorry' or 'please call me', but he leaves it at that.

.:.:.

When Blaine goes upstairs after dinner, he tries calling Kurt. He still doesn't know what he wants to say, just that he _needs_ to say something. It goes to voicemail. The message he leaves is simple, "It's me again, Kurt. I... hope you're okay even though I know you're probably not. I am, still, so sorry. Please call me whenever you can." He doesn't say, 'I love you' or 'I miss you' or 'Please forgive me' or 'I hate the way I left things between us' or 'I hate what I did' or...

Blaine changes into his pajamas and climbs into bed. His sheets are clean, changed today. He's grateful for it, a small thing. It's not even nine o'clock, but he is done with being conscious today.

.:.:.

He wakes up again around two AM and can't get back to sleep. His mind is a theater playing a montage of personal failure. To distract himself—or to vainly seek some small sign of possible absolution—Blaine checks his phone for new messages. But there's nothing from Kurt, and he doesn't care about the others. He types a new text to Kurt, sends it before he can censor himself. "I understand if you hate me now. It's okay if you do. You should."

.:.:.

The next day, Finn is in the choir room after school, and Blaine is genuinely glad to see him. It brings back a small portion of last year when the choir room felt safe. Blaine tries to talk to him, because Finn doesn't seem to hate him. Just asks him questions Blaine can't—or doesn't want to—answer. Then everyone else comes in.

.:.:.

If Blaine thought the silence from Kurt was suffocating him before; it's strangling him now. There are moments when he sits on the edge of the bed, his unresponsive phone clenched in his hand, feeling like his skin is about to tear open, his brain will collapse, and his heart will simply shudder to a halt. He throws the phone across the room and discovers gorilla glass really is that strong.

.:.:.

Eli texts him, polite and not pushy. He's not a bad guy, and Blaine didn't treat him well either. It's hard not to hate him though. Blaine blocks his number, blocks him on Facebook, too. Goes to the bathroom and gargles Listerine until there are tears running down his face and the inside of his cheeks have gone numb.

Then he goes to the basement and punches the heavy bag until his arms and hands rage in agony. The next day he has to use his shoulder to push the doors open at school. No one notices. He doesn't feel better, but at least it's a pain that he's used to. It's distracting.

He misses Kurt. He eats lunch with Brittany who talks about how she misses Santana, but it's completely different for him, and he doesn't know how to explain that to her, so he doesn't try.

.:.:.

Blaine texts Kurt everyday: morning, midday, and twice in the evenings. He calls every night before he goes to bed. Weeks pass and he doesn't get a reply. Finn tells him Kurt says he's hanging in there. Busy with work. Grateful for work. He isn't ready to talk to Blaine yet.

Blaine holds on to the 'yet'.

.:.:.

Miss Pillsbury stops him in the hall one afternoon. Invites him to come talk to her anytime he wants. She hands him a pamphlet and smiles at him. He expects it to be either the 'So You're a Two-timing Ho?' one or the 'So You Look Like Crap?' one, but it's neither. It's titled 'So Your Boyfriend Left You Behind and You're a Ticking Time Bomb?' Blaine laughs humorlessly. Does she not know he's already exploded?

"I mean it, Blaine," Emma says firmly, so sincere and sweet it tugs at whatever crumbling cinder passes for Blaine's heart. "If you need someone to talk to—and I believe that you do—I'm here for you."

"Thank you," Blaine says. She's written her cell phone number on the back of it in fastidious handwriting with a note: 'Call me anytime you need to. You're not alone with this.' "Thank you," he repeats. She nods at him with a sympathetic smile. Blaine blinks back the burn of tears—he hasn't properly cried for a while now—and stammers a good bye. He keeps the pamphlet.

By the time he gets home, Blaine is feeling, not _better_, but ever so slightly lighter. When his mother says hello to him from the kitchen where she's going through the day's mail, he smiles at her. She offers to make him a snack. Today he doesn't decline it.

.:.:.

Two days later he goes to see Miss Pillsbury. He's not sure if it will help; they don't talk about very much that first day; he finds he doesn't know how, like there's a weak muscle he needs to strengthen before he can find or form the words. But it's something, and she listens.

.:.:.

Three days later, Kurt replies to one of his texts. "I can't talk to you about this yet, but I'm writing you a letter." Blaine is staring at it in disbelief when he gets another. "You should know that I don't hate you, Blaine. I thought I might, but it's still very much the opposite." And several minutes later, he gets a third. "I miss you too."

That night Blaine lets himself cry.

**.**

**the end**


End file.
